The Victim

by W. E. B Griffin

  There was a civilian woman, a good-looking young blonde in a fancy dress, standing between the Porsche and the attendant’s booth. She was obviously the complainant, the civilian who had reported the shooting.

  Just seeing the blonde and her state of excitement was enough to convince Archie that the call was for real. Something serious had gone down.

  “What’s going on, miss?” Archie Hellerman asked.

  “A girl has been shot on the roof. We need an ambulance.”

  The dying growl of a siren caught Archie’s attention. He stepped back on the sidewalk and saw a radio patrol wagon, its warning lights still flashing, pulling up. There was another siren wailing, but that car, almost certainly the Highway car that had radioed in that it was going in on the call, was not yet in sight.

  Archie signaled for the wagon to block the entrance ramp and then turned back to the good-looking blonde.

  “You want to tell me what happened, please?”

  “Well, we drove onto the roof, and my boyfriend saw her lying on the floor—”

  “Your boyfriend? Where is he?”

  I said “my boyfriend.” Why did I say “my boyfriend”?

  “He’s up there,” Amanda Spencer said. “He’s a policeman.”

  “Your boyfriend is a cop?”

  Amanda Spencer nodded her head.

  Matt Payne is a cop. He really is a cop, as incredible as that seems. He had a gun, and he talked to me like a cop.

  The driver of EPW 906, Officer Howard C. Sawyer, a very large twenty-six-year-old who had been dropped from a farm team of the Baltimore Orioles just before joining the Department sixteen months ago, pulled the Ford van onto the entrance ramp and started to get out.

  He heard a siren die behind him, then growl again, and turned to look.

  “Get that out of there!” the driver of Highway 4B shouted, his head out the window of the antenna-festooned but otherwise unmarked car.

  Officer Sawyer backed the van up enough for the Highway Patrol car to get past him. The tires squealed as the car, in low gear, drove inside the building and started up the ramp to the upper floors. Sawyer saw that the driver was a sergeant; and, surprised, he noticed that the other cop was a regular cop, wearing a regular, as opposed to crushed-crown, uniform cap.

  At precisely that moment the driver of Highway 4B, Sergeant Nick DeBenedito, who had been a policeman for ten years and a Highway Patrol sergeant for two, had a professional, if somewhat unkind, thought: Shit, I’m riding with a rookie! And I got a gut feeling that whatever this job is, it’s for real.

  Then, as he glanced over at Officer Jesus Martinez, he immediately modified that thought. Martinez, a slight, sharp-featured Latino kid of twenty-four, was, by the ordinary criteria, certainly a rookie. He had been on the job less than two years. But he’d gone right from the Police Academy to a plainclothes assignment with Narcotics.

  He’d done very well at that, learning more in the year he’d spent on that assignment about the sordid underside of Philadelphia than a lot of cops learned in a lifetime. And then he’d topped that off helping to catch a scumbag named Gerald Vincent Gallagher, the junkie who had fatally shot Captain Richard F. “Dutch” Moffitt during a failed holdup of the Waikiki Diner on Roosevelt Boulevard.

  Every cop in Philadelphia, all eight thousand of them, had been looking for Gerald Vincent Gallagher, especially every cop in Highway. Captain “Dutch” Moffitt had been the Highway commander. But Martinez and his partner, McFadden, had found him, by staking out where they thought he would show up. Martinez and Gallagher had both shown a lot of balls and unusual presence of mind under pressure by chasing the scumbag first through the crowded station and then down the elevated tracks of the subway. They’d had a chance to shoot Gallagher but hadn’t fired because they were concerned about where his bullets might land.

  McFadden had just about laid his hands on the son of a bitch when Gallagher had slipped and fried himself on the third rail and then gotten himself chopped up under the wheels of a subway train, but that didn’t take one little thing away from the way Martinez and McFadden had handled themselves.

  Around the bar of the FOP (Fraternal Order of Police), they said they ought to give them two citations, one for finding Gallagher and another for saving the city the cost of trying the son of a bitch.

  Once they’d gotten their pictures in the newspapers, of course, that had ruined them for an undercover job in Narcotics. In most other big-city police departments, what they had done would have seen them promoted to detective. But in Philadelphia, all promotions are by examination, and Jesus Martinez had not yet taken it, and Charley McFadden hadn’t been on the job long enough even to take it.

  That didn’t mean the department big shots weren’t grateful. They also knew that most young cops who had worked in plainclothes regarded being ordered back into uniform as sort of a demotion, and they didn’t want to do that to Martinez and McFadden. “They” included Chief Inspector Dennis V. Coughlin, arguably the most influential of all the chief inspectors.

  And at about that time His Honor the Mayor had offered some more of his “suggestions” for the betterment of the Police Department, this one resulting in the establishment of a new division to be called Special Operations, under a young, hotshot staff inspector named Wohl, about whom little was known except some of the old-timers said that his father had been the mayor’s rabbi when the mayor was a cop.

  The mayor hadn’t stopped with that, either. His other “suggestions” had pissed off just about everybody in Highway. He had “suggested” that a newly promoted captain named David Pekach, who had been assigned to Narcotics, be named the new commander of Highway, to replace Captain Dutch Moffitt. Everybody in Highway thought that Dutch Moffitt’s deputy, Mike Sabara, who had been on the same captains’ promotion list as Pekach, would get the job. Not only that, but Pekach was well-known within Highway as the guy who had bagged the only drug-dirty cop, a sergeant, Highway had ever had.

  He had also “suggested” that Captain Sabara be named deputy commander of the new Special Operations Division. And finally, what had really pissed Highway off, he had “suggested” that Highway be placed under the new Special Operations Division. Highway, from its beginnings, had always been special and separate. Now it was going to be under some young clown whose only claim to fame was that he was well connected politically.

  It had quickly become common knowledge in Highway that their new boss, Staff Inspector Peter Wohl, not only looked wet behind the ears but was. He was the youngest of the sixteen staff inspectors in the Department. He had spent very little time on the streets as a “real cop,” but instead had spent most of his career as an investigator, most recently of corrupt politicians, of which Philadelphia, it was said, had more than its fair share. He had never worn a uniform as a lieutenant or a captain and had zero experience running a district or even a special unit, like Homicide, Intelligence, or even the K-9 Corps.

  Five days before, Sergeant DeBenedito had been ordered to report to the commander of Special Operations in Special Operations’ temporary headquarters at Bustleton and Bowler Streets in Northeast Philadelphia.

  Captains Sabara and Pekach were in Staff Inspector Peter Wohl’s office when he went in. Mike Sabara was wearing the uniform prescribed for captains not attached to Highway Patrol. It consisted of a white shirt with captain’s bars on the collar and blue trousers. He carried a snub-nosed Smith & Wesson .38 Special revolver in a small holster on his belt. DeBenedito had heard that Wohl had told him, to make the point that Sabara was no longer in Highway, that he had his choice of either civilian clothing, or uniform without the distinguishing motorcyclist boots and Sam Browne belt with its row of shiny cartridges.

  Captain Pekach was wearing the Highway uniform. The contrast between the two was significant.

  Wohl, DeBenedito thought somewhat unkindly, did not even look like a cop. He was a tall, slim young man with light brown hair. He was wearing a blue blazer and gray flannel slacks, a white
button-down shirt with a rep-striped necktie. He looked, DeBenedito thought, like some candy-ass lawyer or stockbroker from the Main Line.

  He was sitting on a couch with his feet, shod in glistening loafers, resting on a coffee table. When his office had been Dutch Moffitt’s office, there had been neither coffee table nor couch in it.

  “Well, that was quick,” Wohl said. “I just sent for you.”

  “I just came in, sir,” DeBenedito said, shaking hands first with Mike Sabara and then with Pekach.

  “Help yourself to coffee,” Wohl said, gesturing toward a chrome thermos.

  “No thank you, sir.”

  “Okay. Right to the point,” Wohl had said. “Do you know Officers Jesus Martinez and Charles McFadden?”

  “I’ve seen them around, sir.”

  “You know about them?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m going to make them probationary Highway Patrolmen,” Wohl said.

  “I don’t know what that means, sir,” DeBenedito said.

  “That’s probably because I just made it up,” Wohl confessed cheerfully, with a chuckle. To DeBenedito’s surprise, Captain Sabara laughed.

  “A probationary Highway Patrolman,” Wohl went on, “is a young police officer who has done something outstanding in the course of his regular duties. On the recommendation of his captain, and if he volunteers, he will be temporarily assigned to Highway. For three months he will be paired with a supervisor—a sergeant such as yourself, DeBenedito.…”

  DeBenedito became aware that Wohl was waiting for a response. “Yes, sir,” he said.

  “During that three months the probationers will ride either with their sergeant or with a good Highway cop. And I mean replacing the second cop in the car, not as excess baggage in the backseat.”

  “Yes, sir,” DeBenedito said.

  “And at the end of the three months the supervisor will recommend, in writing, that the probationer be taken into Highway; in other words, go through the Wheel School and the other training or not. With his reasons.”

  Sergeant DeBenedito did not like what he had heard. When it became apparent to him that Wohl was again waiting for a response, he blurted, “Can you do that, sir?”

  “Do you mean, do I have the authority?”

  “Yes, sir. I mean, the requirements for getting into Highway are pretty well established. We don’t take people with less than four, five years—”

  “Didn’t,” Wohl said, interrupting. “B.W.”

  “‘B.W.,’ sir?”

  “Before Wohl,” Wohl explained. “And do I have the authority? I don’t know. But until someone tells me in writing that I don’t, I’m going to presume that I do.”

  “Yes, sir,” DeBenedito said.

  “I don’t think length of service would be that important a criterion for getting into Highway,” Wohl said. “I think doing an outstanding job should carry more weight.”

  “Sir,” DeBenedito said, “with respect, Highway is different.”

  He saw in the look on Captain Sabara’s face that that had been the wrong thing to say.

  “Cutting this short,” Wohl said, a hint of annoyance in his voice, “based on Captain Sabara’s recommendation of you, Sergeant, you are herewith appointed probationary evaluation officer for Officers Jesus Martinez and Charles McFadden, whose probationary period begins today. If you run into any problems, let Captain Pekach know. That will be all. Thank you.”

  Captain Pekach had followed DeBenedito out of Wohl’s office.

  “I want to introduce you to Martinez and McFadden,” Pekach said. “I told them to wait in the roll call room.”

  “I guess I said the wrong thing in there, huh?” DeBenedito had asked.

  “You’re going to have to learn to know what you’re talking about before you open your mouth,” Pekach had replied. “I don’t think you would have told the inspector that Highway was different if you knew he was the youngest sergeant ever in Highway, would you?”

  “Jesus, was he?”

  “Yeah, he was. He was also the youngest captain the Department has ever had, is the youngest staff inspector the Department has ever had, and if he doesn’t shoot himself in the foot with Special Operations, stands, I think, a damned good chance to be the youngest full inspector.”

  “Should I go back in there and apologize?”

  “No. Let it go. Peter Wohl doesn’t carry a grudge. But if you’re looking for advice, don’t start this evaluation business with Martinez and McFadden thinking it’s a dumb idea it was your bad luck to get stuck with. Give it your best shot.”

  “Yes, sir,” DeBenedito said. “They worked for you in Narcotics, didn’t they, Captain?”

  “Yeah. And they both did a good job for me. But if you’re asking if this was my idea, the answer is no. And if you’re asking whether I think either of them can cut the mustard, the answer is, I don’t know.”

  Sergeant Nick DeBenedito, driving with great skill, drove up the ramps until he reached the fourth floor. Then he stopped by the stairwell.

  “Martinez,” he ordered calmly, “you go up the stairs. I don’t think we’re still going to find anybody up there, but you never know. If you hear somebody going down the stairs, go and yell down at the district guy.” He pointed to the side of the parking garage, where a line of windows were open.

  “Got it,” Martinez said, then got out of the car and went to the stairwell. DeBenedito saw him take his revolver from his holster and carefully push the stairwell door open and go inside. Then DeBenedito stepped on the accelerator and started up the last ramp to the roof. As he drove, he drew his revolver.

  Jesus Martinez listened carefully inside the stairwell for any noise and heard none. Then he went up the stairs, taking them two at a time, until he reached the door opening onto the roof.

  He listened there for a moment, heard nothing, and then, standing clear of the door, pushed it open. He quickly glanced around. Sergeant DeBenedito was out of his car. He was holding his revolver in both hands, aiming at someone out of sight.

  Christ, Jesus Martinez thought in admiration, he’s already got the son of a bitch on the ground!

  He trotted between the parked cars, staying out of what would be the line of fire if DeBenedito fired his revolver, until he could see who was on the ground.

  There was the body of a girl in a fancy dress, lying in a pool of blood, and a man in a tuxedo, lying facedown.

  “Put cuffs on him, Martinez,” DeBenedito ordered.

  The man lying facedown moved his head to look at Jesus Martinez.

  “Hay-zus, tell him I’m a cop,” Matt Payne said.

  “Sergeant,” Martinez said, “he’s a cop.”

  DeBenedito looked at him, more for absolute confirmation than in surprise. He started to holster his gun.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  Matt Payne got to his knees.

  “Is there a wagon on the way?”

  “Martinez, yell down for that wagon to get up here,” DeBenedito ordered. Jesus ran to the edge of the roof and did so.

  “There’s a body, white male, head blown away, over by the stairwell,” Payne said, pointing. “I think the doer, doers, were long gone when I drove up here.”

  “You look familiar,” DeBenedito said. “I know you?”

  “My name is Payne,” Matt said. “I work for Inspector Wohl.”

  Oh, shit!DeBenedito thought. And then he knew who this guy in the tuxedo was. He was the rookie who had blown the brains of the Northwest Philly serial rapist all over his van.

  FIVE

  “What the hell happened here?” Sergeant DeBenedito asked Matt Payne as he dropped to one knee to examine the woman on the floor.

  She was unconscious but not dead. When he felt his fingers on her neck, feeling for a heartbeat, she moaned. DeBenedito looked impatiently over his shoulder for the wagon.

  If we don’t get her to a hospital soon, she will be dead.

  “She was on the ground, the floor, when I drove up here
,” Matt said. “When I saw she was shot, I sent my date down to call it in. Then I found the dead guy.”

  “Any idea who they are?”

  “Her name is Detweiler,” Matt said. “Penny—Penelope—Detweiler. I guess she was up here with her car—”

  “Brilliant,” DeBenedito said sarcastically.

  “She was going the same place we were,” Matt said. “She’s a bridesmaid—”

  “A what?”

  “A bridesmaid. There’s a dinner at the Union League.”

  “Who is she?”

  “I told you. Her name is Detweiler,” Matt said, and then finally understood the question. “She lives in Chestnut Hill. Her father is president of Nesfoods.”

  “But you don’t know the other victim?”

  “No. I don’t think he was with her. He’s not wearing a dinner jacket.”

  “A what?”

  “A tuxedo. The dinner is what they call ‘black-tie.’”

  RPW 902 came onto the roof.

  Officer Howard C. Sawyer saw DeBenedito and the victim and quickly and skillfully turned the van around and backed up to them. Officer Thomas Collins, riding shotgun in 902, was out of the wagon before it stopped, first signaling to Sawyer when to stop and then quickly opening the rear door.

  “This one’s still alive,” DeBenedito said. “There’s a dead one—” He stopped, thinking, I don’t know if the other one is dead or not; all I have is this rookie’s opinion that he’s dead.

  “The other one is dead, right?” he asked, challenging Matt Payne.

  “The top of his head is gone,” Matt said.

  DeBenedito looked at Officers Sawyer, Collins, Payne, and Martinez.

  What I have here is four fucking rookies!

  The victim moaned as Sawyer and Collins, as gently as they could, picked her up and slid her onto a stretcher.

  The second officer in an RPW, the one said to be “riding shotgun,” was officially designated as “the recorder”; he was responsible for handling all the paperwork. According to Department procedure, the recorder in an RPW would ride with the victim in the back of the wagon en route to the hospital to interview her, if possible, and possibly get a “dying declaration,” what would be described in court as the last words of the deceased before dying. A dying declaration carried a lot of weight with jurors.